


Freedom in Anonymity

by Moraearty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bathroom walls, Drunken sincerity, If someone beat me to writing this I will drink heavily and shout at you., M/M, My first fic, ON!, The game is...., for science john!, you were warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moraearty/pseuds/Moraearty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to pin you to the wall like a butterfly. I want to kiss you until your legs give out and you have only me to save you from gravity’s harsh pull. I want to mark you. Where others have left hickeys I will leave impressions of teeth.  Glaring, red grooves against a tanned canvas. A silent warning to all whose eyes linger on you. Mine.  I want to analyze and catalogue your every pleasured expression, no matter how fleeting. Record every heated sound that breaches your lips, loop it, and set it as my ringtone. A reminder. A cadence of debauchery vocalized and I ripped it from you with teeth and tongue.  I want to take you apart and put you back together.  To be your undoing. I want you to feel the way I do when you grace me with a glance and slay me with a smile." </p><p>John had never cared for bathroom graffiti. It was essentially the same childish words penned a million different ways.<br/>Now he cared and he was damned if he wasn't going to respond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. YOU! I wanna take you to a gay bar!

Mike Stamford was a bastard. No, no, no, Mike Stamford was THE bastard. Mike Stamford was king of the bastards and John Watson was damn near drunk enough to play his jester. 

John Watson fresh out of hospital, limp in full swing, and a bladder full of what can only be described as extremely effective children's liquor, was not one to be trifled with.

It had taken a tremendous effort on his behalf to agree to a night of false cheer for the sake of old times. Well, that and it was becoming increasingly hard to come up with excuses not to since bumping into good ol' Mikey at the park. The man is persistent as he is large and how he acquired John's number remains a mystery. Equally puzzling was the fact that the place Mike had chosen for their little get together, a place they once frequently visited in their uni days, had become quite possibly the gayest pub John had ever entered. 

Now John was by no means straight, but neither was he overtly gay. In fact, apparently he was the only person he knew who didn't flaunt their sexuality whenever the chance presented itself. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable with being bisexual, it's just that his sexuality as well as his sexual preferences were his business alone. Except when he was a bit tipsy. And Mike bloody well knew this. 

"Bit different from my day." Remarked John as he eyed the frankly pornographic drink menu. 

"You've no idea." Mike smirked.

Before John could even ponder that expression, Mike managed to order them a round of the fruitiest drinks known to man with equally fruity names, wink at "Stephenie" the barman, and steer him to a booth with disarmingly comfy seats. 

John needed to get the hell out of here. 

"Sooooo...do you come here often?" 

John winced internally as his attempt to bore his way out of here with small talk backfired when Mike choked on his second Appletini (jesus christ) giggling. 

Mike's grin was punchable, but he at least had the decency to keep his comments to himself.

"I came here when me and the wife were going through our divorce. Admittedly it was a bit of a shock," John snorted at that. "Still I got through a rough time here. And my god, John, you wouldn't believe how easy it is to pick up men here!"

It was that sentence that sent John into a coughing fit. It was also that sentence that made John laugh for the first time in 3 months. The revelation would have been sobering were it not for Mike's contagious giggling.  
"For god's sake could someone get this man another Golden Shower," he shouted, "This one's gone all over his shirt!"

Mike really was a bastard.

 

Now, another Golden Shower and six Slippery Nipples later, John was determined to have a slash. As he made his way to the toilets he couldn't help but wonder what he would encounter upon his entry into the loo. Before he even reached the door hundreds of mental images of men in various states of debauchery flitted through his mind and by god did he feel a little thrill at the idea. So with a firm push and a spike of arousal he opened the door to find...nothing. There was nothing going on. Well that's not true.  
Wall to wall paint in a frankly alarming shade of pink with a good many mobile numbers scribbled on it was what was going on. 

Damn.

With a wobbly gait and more than a little disappointment he made his way to the only stall because apparently all three of the sodding urinals were out of order.

It was unsurprisingly covered in graffiti, but one written directly at his eye level caught his attention. It wasn't the fact that it was written in a deep purple ink that caught his eye(honestly where do you even find purple ink pens though?!), or the fact that it seemed to be written by someone who had excellent penmanship, or even the fact that it was right in his sloshed face. No, it was the sheer length of it. and so, curiosity piqued, he read. 

"I want to pin you to the wall like a butterfly. I want to kiss you until your legs give out and you have only me to save you from gravity’s harsh pull. I want to mark you. Where others have left hickeys I will leave impressions of teeth. Glaring, red grooves against a tanned canvas. A silent warning to all whose eyes linger on you. Mine. I want to analyze and catalogue your every pleasured expression, no matter how fleeting. Record every heated sound that breaches your lips, loop it, and set it as my ringtone. A reminder. A cadence of debauchery vocalized and I ripped it from you with teeth and tongue. I want to take you apart and put you back together. To be your undoing. I want you to feel the way I do when you grace me with a glance and slay me with a smile." 

John had never cared for bathroom graffiti. It was essentially the same childish words penned a million different ways. 

Now he cared and he was damned if he wasn't going to respond.


	2. I got your number off the bathroom wall.

“Are you familiar with the works of Jeffrey Dahmer?”   
Is not the sort of thing to say in a gay bar, and that is precisely why Sherlock said it.

This was the fourth bar in London that Sherlock had visited in as many days and it was as annoying as it was exhilarating. Exhilarating because he was once again proving the Andersons of the world (or just The Anderson) wrong. Annoying because a riding crop is an oddly ineffective weapon when you’re trying to smack away a particularly irritating over-the-hill queen. If anything it seemed to have the opposite effect. 

“Oooh, I could just eat you up.” the mound of glitter and feathers seemed to belch at him.

Now far be it from Sherlock to damn up the torrent of embarrassing deductions, but at the moment he was determined to not miss any data of his most recent experiment by getting kicked out of the place.   
People seemed to take much more offense to having their personal lives summarized and verbally thrown on them like a bucket of ice-water than they did to casual mentionings of serial killers and brief, but detailed, descriptions of the how they got rid of the bodies. In this case acid and cannibalism was on the menu and with a quick smile that was far more teeth than lips he was rid of Fellatious Flo and his bourbon breath. The staff will watch him a bit more closely, but they can’t kick him out at the word of an aging “ex”-prostitute with a penchant for teenage boys and an increasingly apparent addiction to cocai-

Oh.

He needs another patch. Now.

Before he could even cross the sweatfest that was the dance floor to reach the loo a flash of out-of-place fabric caught his eye.   
Two men lingering near the front. The first was a recent divorcee, the approximate age of 40, teacher at St. Bart’s and not at all someone he’d have expected to see at the aptly dubbed Novaries. Mike Stamford just got a bit more interesting. The man behind Stamford, however, seemed to be the personification of tension in an awful cable knit jumper. Younger than Stamford, possibly went to uni together, proximity between Mike and Mr. Prickly said old friends, not too close, not too far. So a meet up. Stance, haircut, and tan said military, cane said wounded in action. Grumpy-Face and Stamford exchanged something short before Hans the Hedgehog eyed the drinks menu with a look of distaste and allowed himself to be dragged away to a booth. 

Sherlock just found his test subject for the evening. This night just got a whole lot better. 

Sherlock watched as drink after drink was practically poured into the man he now knows as John, if Mike’s constant shouting was indicative.

He would have to urinate soon. Perfect. 

Within 3 minutes Sherlock had the bathroom set up for John. Out of order signs in place, writing at eye level, a pricey micro camera hidden in a hollowed out nook just out of sight, and a glare on his face that kept every other patron from even thinking about using it for their usual…encounters. 

Sherlock had no problem with sex, but as far as he was concerned anyone with a protruding nub and an orifice could give physical pleasure. Case and point being Anderson. Sherlock, however, was a creature of the mind and as such was determined to prove that mental imagery and psychological stimulation could be just as much, if not more, pleasurable than an erotic clench with another partner any day of the week. 

And that’s where John came in. 

John was the twelfth subject and would be the last. He had to be a 2 or 3 on the Kinsey scale and that’s exactly what Sherlock was looking for. 

Six out of the last eleven subjects had reacted positively to Sherlock’s experiments. All eleven had reacted with the standard pupil dilation, change in breathing, and if Sherlock had been able to check their pulses he was positive the would have been pounding, but six specifically had either become erect and/or masturbated on the spot. Which was a bit unfortunate, but even he had to admit not everyone could come without being touched. 

Sherlock was snapped out of his internal ramblings by the sight of John getting up. 

Right on schedule, John, you diamond. 

With a quick step to the right he was lost in the crowd and John limped right on by none the wiser.

It took John exactly 7 minutes and 26 seconds to exit the bathroom. Sherlock watched him slur his goodbyes to Mike and leave the pub with a somewhat less pronounced limp. Psychosomatic? Possibly. Now to retrieve the data and be on his merry way. Excellent. 

The moment Sherlock made it to the stall he realized two things. 

1\. John Watson had definitely come in here if the overpowering musk was anything to go on, proving him correct and ending his experiment. 

2\. John Watson had written back. 

“I want to finger you to the point of sobbing. You’ll be wearing my dog tags around your balls to prevent you from coming. This will go on for as long as I see fit. When my hand gets tired I’ll slide under you and let you fuck my face. The gagging noises will be bothersome, but the taste of you on my lips will be worth it.”

 

Jesus fucking Christ. Three things. 

3\. John Watson had instigated a new experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't attempt anything without the gloves.


	3. I Remember Nothing

The sun was a fucker. The birds were fuckers. Life in general was one big fucker when you felt like death. 

It was going to take at least half a day for John Watson to recover from the girl drink hangover of the century. Bloody Mike.  
He’d have liked to stay in bed doing a fantastic impression of a burrito, but it was not to be.  
There was barfing to do, nurofen to scrounge for, and maybe some cake to soak up whatever alcohol that was left in his stomach. But before any of that could happen, before he could get one shaky leg off the side of the bed, he had to murder whatever was making that heinous noise amongst the sheets. 3 minutes later, still fighting the bedding, and he was no closer to finding the bleep blooping bastard that was currently the bane of his existence. He was sure it was his phone. Had to be. Admittedly it was making noises he’d never heard, but he’d never heard anything other than a dying noise from it before so that was hardly surprising. Another round of beeps and another sheet conquered, he emerged from the bed victorious on legs like a newborn foal‘s. 

“I’ll deal with you later, you little dick.” He grumbled at his phone. The phone beeped back in the smuggest manner John had ever heard, and even though he knew the phone wasn’t capable of smugness, logic be damned. He yanked the back off and ripped out the battery. 

The next hour was spent recuperating against the toilet. Dry bread and tap water were for lunch and another nap followed shortly after a swallowing malfunction. Bagels had successfully made it onto John’s shit list.

It wasn’t until 5:46 in the afternoon that John was capable of functioning in the real world again.  
It wasn’t until 6:10 that he forgave his phone. 

-5 New Messages-

The first was from Mike asking how he was doing. 

The second was from Harry who Mike had contacted halfway through their night out with a picture of John in a feather boa holding one of those awful drinks. That had to be the cause of the smug beep. 

The third and fourth were spam.

The fifth however was from a number John didn’t recognize that simply said “Bathroom Wall” with a picture underneath it of said wall that had some writing that looked remarkably like his on it.

John got through half of it before he decided to dedicate the rest of his life to being asleep. It’s much harder to make an ass out of yourself when you’re asleep. 

As if on cue, the phone beeped again. Same number. Dear god. 

With a bit of trepidation John opened the message and was struck dumb for the duration of the evening. 

“I want to ride you. I want to ride you over and over until one of us passes out and even then I don’t want it to stop. I want total control in my act of submission. Even with you sheathed inside me, fingers buried deep enough into my hips to leave a constellation of mottled purples and blues, you’d still be mine. -SH”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With each chapter I become more powerful. Power corrupts. Write a lot, be evil.


	4. What difference does it make?

Sherlock would be lying if he said John’s response hadn’t had its intended effect. But ever the one to lie to himself anyways, Sherlock told himself that he had nicked John’s contact info off of Mike’s phone for The Work. He did it because it was necessary to continue his experiment regardless of the fact that he hadn't decided what the experiment was. Not because Sherlock had to walk out of the pub with a limp almost as bad as John‘s. Certainly not because every bump the cabbie had hit caused a bolt of pleasure all the way to 221B. And definitely not because the moment he slammed the door to his flat he ended up collapsing against it due to a particularly intense climax. 

Obviously, it was because of The Work. 

Sherlock was always sleepy after orgasm and so he had reluctantly gone to bed. Having trained his body to go into REM immediately he got his usual 2 hours of sleep and woke up feeling refreshed.  
Feeling refreshed and looking refreshed were two different things entirely as it turns out. As he eyed himself, he took in all that was wrong with his appearance. His usually artfully disheveled hair now looked like a brown coral slowly consuming his head. There was dried saliva that had built up at the corners of his mouth and it seemed to accentuate his chapped lips. His eyebrows seemed to have reproduced as their offspring sat directly between them. In short, he looked awful, and the fact that no one had brought his unibrow to his attention out of fear of sounding rude was rude in its own right. 

What day was it, Thursday? Thursday. Now officially known as Showerday and would be marked as such in his internal calendar when days of the week became important enough to have an internal calendar. 

After he finished the first of his bi-weekly, hour-long groom sessions he snatched his phone with the intent to text John. That was of course before he noticed the time.

It was just now 4:00 am. _Crumpets._

 

By the time 11:00 am rolled around Sherlock had written a detailed blog entry on the fracture patterns of mirrors (and an even more detailed comparison of that to the fracture patterns of glass), taken apart his microwave and put it back together, cleaned up the now burnt and warped remains of the clearly faulty-to-begin-with microwave, studied and mentally catalogued 79 different stabbing techniques, sent Mycroft a two hundred dollar congratulatory cake for losing weight (the fact that it was a confectionary replica of Lestrade‘s ass was well worth the bill) before he outed the head baker‘s nephew as the one who was killing off rival bakers (dull), and then identified and squirreled away the poisons he had nicked off of said nephew when Lestrade wasn’t looking. Overall his morning so far had been an exercise in tedium.  
It wasn’t until he bumped into-and got tangled in-a display rack of hideous jumpers on his way home that he remembered he had John’s number. There was hope for this day yet!

It only occurred to him as he was whipping out his mobile for the second time that he couldn’t think of a thing to say.  
How could he introduce himself? 

“Hello, I’m the man who wrote that message on the bathroom wall in order to record your reactions so I could write an article in the Journal of Sexology proving that mental stimulation could be just as effective as physical because I know Anderson reads it and how dare that man insinuate I couldn’t do something as basic as giving pleasure. I can bring someone off without being in the damn room. Well, you know. ;)”

_That won’t do. Maybe if I remove the wink-no._

He started again.

“Are you wearing your dogtags? Please say yes.”

_Where had that come from?!_

With a sigh of frustration and a hair ruffle Sherlock closed his eyes and thought.  
He needs to remain anonymous. He hadn’t officially decided where he was going with this, but that bit seemed vital to his experiment. Whatever it was. He needs to make sure John knew it was him so it would have to be something he would associate with last night.

_Oh._

Of course, he’d just continue where they left off. And to make sure John knew it was him in case he mistook him for a common pervert (because Sherlock was not common) he sent the picture he had taken of their little correspondence last night before allowing himself to dig up his more submissive side (which was still quite dominant). He didn’t have to dig deep. He knew that John would be more inclined to speak to him if he appealed to his dominant streak. So, with a flurry of fingers he composed and sent a second message.  
He sat for a full five minutes waiting for a response mentally willing his phone to do something. Anything. 

_This is taking too long._

By the time he heard the phone ding, Sherlock had moved from the desk to the couch to the chair to the top of the couch to the roof before finally settling underneath the kitchen table. When he heard the phone he popped out like a meerkat and snatched his phone from atop the blade of the ceiling fan.  
With an impatient jab of his finger he opened the text. 

“Is that it?” 

Sherlock was delighted. His delight at John’s responding was briefly dampened by his disappointment at John’s lack of eroticism (which was something he didn’t wish to examine too closely) before it was reignited by another ding.

“We haven’t even met, we don't know a thing about each other and we’re just going to dive right in?”

Before Sherlock could stop himself he had pressed send, something which he regretted immediately after rereading his message to John. 

“It didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

_Damn!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe you guys actually read my notes. I avoid notes with a passion usually reserved for people.


	5. No Place to Fall

_“It didn’t seem to bother you last night.”_

John knew he should be embarrassed. He knew he should be angry. He knew he should be suspicious.  
He also knew that he shouldn’t be giggling. 

“That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” John typed, smiling.  
The response was instantaneous. 

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” 

That only incited another round of giggling.

“That wasn’t just me!” John started to write back, still giggling, before he realized he’d never told this complete STRANGER that he was a soldier. That he had never given this man (was it a man even? Oh right, gay bar.) his number. That this was a man who had started off a conversation they shouldn’t even be having with one of the most indecent things John had ever read, never mind that it was incredibly hot, the whole thing was still more than a little dodgy. And the worst part was how much he was enjoying himself.  
How easily the conversation flowed. And John realized further that, up until this moment, he had been completely relaxed. It had taken several hours and plenty of alcohol to relax around Mike, and Mike was one of his oldest friends! John decided he didn’t want to sever contact with “SH”, but he was going to have to get some answers if this…whatever this was, was going to continue. It was at the very moment that John had made his decision that the phone beeped again.

“You’ve got questions.”

“Bloody right I do,” muttered John. Mentally sifting through an increasingly long list of questions, half of which were sexual, he eventually decided on the one that was bothering him the most.

“How did you get my number?”

Again, the response was quick as you please. “Nicked it off a mutual acquaintance of ours. Mike is exceedingly easy to steal from.” 

Well, that seemed to raise more questions than anything, but John persevered.

“How did you know I was in Afghanistan?”

This time there was a delay. A looooong delay. It seemed to go on forever and John was becoming increasingly tense, until finally a response came.

“I didn’t know, I made a guess based on evidence gathered and evaluated. You’re clearly a soldier invalided home if your stance, gait, tan, and haircut are anything to go by. Your therapist thinks you have a psychosomatic limp, quite correctly I’m afraid, which suggests a traumatic environment and an even more traumatic injury. Aw but you’re not just any kind of soldier, you’re a medic. How did I know that? Simple: Stamford. Your relationship screams old friends who’ve lost touch. Now Stamford wasn’t in the army, so how would you know him? How would you, someone who hasn’t been in London for about 5-10 years be friends with someone like Stamford? Obvious, you were friends before you enlisted. But who would he have time for socializing with whilst studying for his doctorate? You. Because you were in all the same classes. And even if I hadn’t deduced all of this off of you alone I could just refer to your words. “Dogtags around my balls” ringing any bells, John? So there, you see, in answer to your very first question we do know things about each other. I know you’re an army doctor, with a psychosomatic limp, and a level of kinkiness that corresponds with mine and you know I’m brilliant. That’s enough to be going on with don’t you think?”

John was dumbfounded. How, HOW was this a real person?! John had met many smart men and women in his lifetime, he liked to think he was one of them himself, but this? This was something else entirely and “brilliant” didn’t even cover it. 

“That. Was amazing.” 

There was another pause, shorter this time, but still quite long. 

“You think so?”

My god, how was that even a question? 

“It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary. How long were you watching me?”

The phone beeped. 

“All night.”

And then beeped again not unlike an afterthought. 

“Not good?” 

John couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Bit not good, yeah….Just one more question. Why me?”

There was a hesitant pause, because apparently John was starting to interpret pauses. 

“Because you wrote back.” 

There seemed to be so much loneliness in those four words that it made John ache. And suddenly it all became clear. The graffiti, the texts, the shy uncertainty at John‘s compliment. Good god, he probably rarely ever got compliments. The man had called himself brilliant because he didn‘t think John would. SH was as lonely as John and knowing that melted away any lingering doubts about him. He didn’t notice that his hand wasn’t trembling anymore as he texted.

“What‘s your name?”

He only had to wait 10 seconds. 

“That’s two questions. Goodnight, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kudos of strangers. 
> 
> Also, SLEEPINGJOHN made me cry. Why am I mentioning this? No reason. *eyeballs Queenoftheuniverse within an inch of her life*


	6. Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than John. I'll try and make up for that tonight.

Sherlock needed to think. He needed to understand John. He didn’t know when his mind had made the subtle shift from finding John just interesting enough to contact to **needing to know every aspect about John in explicit detail** , but the suddenness was disorienting. 

John’s reaction to his deductions was not even remotely expected and that just seemed to cement his need to glean any and all knowledge on this ceaselessly surprising specimen. 

And like a lightning bolt of recognition Sherlock realized he hadn’t felt like this since the days of lining his lips with cocaine. He hadn’t felt everything else fall by the wayside because his mind was so focused in so long it made him sway. There wasn’t any distraction. There was a conspicuous absence of what once was a steady torrent of consciousness threatening to break him at any moment. Faces, places, sounds all clogging up his cognitive functions, all swirling into a roaring mass of muddled insignificance and John had dammed them up with surgical precision. There was only John. John was better than any cocaine. 

 

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. 

Closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, he steadied himself against the arm of the couch and concentrated on getting his transport under control. His mind may be functioning at full-capacity, but his body seemed to be experiencing technical difficulties and it wasn‘t until he looked down at himself that he realized why…he was fully erect. Well, every drug had its side effects. Apparently John’s happened to be constant boners.

There was only one thing for it. With shaky fingers he lowered his zip, freeing more and more of his member from the soft confines of his slacks. 

He didn’t believe in underwear. Underwear was the devil’s garment designed solely to hinder, and it was moments like these that reinforced that philosophy. 

His breath hitched as the back of one knuckle grazed the underside of his shaft. This wouldn’t take long.

Sherlock had always been particularly sensitive, which is why he didn‘t enjoy sex in the traditional sense. He didn’t enjoy the pitying smiles, or the mocking sneers. He did however enjoy bringing his partners off and so he learned how to have sex without having sex.

He learned to arouse with his stance, he learned how to caress with his eyes, he learned how to make love with a parting of his lips, he learned how to fuck with his words. And even though people’s reactions were always predictable and he usually lost interest once he‘d proven he could do something, it was always worth doing because that particular response would never become tiresome. Denying his own pleasure to watch others unravel under the power of his mind was always worth it. 

It was the thought of doing this to John that pushed him over the edge and sent him death spiraling into the euphoric abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to express my sincerest appreciation for all of you who have commented, kudoed, bookmarked, or just read this. For me it has been a particularly draining month, both physically and emotionally. When I started writing this I did it for purely selfish reasons. My first real relationship did not work out and I wanted it to so very much. I started this because I wanted a happy ending and I was going to get it even if I had to create it myself. I posted it because other people’s writing made me feel a little less numb and if I could I wanted to return that feeling. That being said I was not expecting any feedback. I certainly wasn’t expecting any positive feedback. So, my dears, thank you. Thank you for restoring what little faith I have in humanity. Thank you for making me smile. And thank you for helping me overcome my depression. It’s funny how the little things can make such a big difference. 
> 
> Now let’s take a page from the mormons and all get married. 
> 
> “Do you take these....sherlockians? to be your lawfully wedded partners as long as you all shall live?”
> 
> “That’s what people DO!” 
> 
> "Oh um, right. The rings"
> 
> "There are no rings, DOOFUS!!! The rings are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless. You can't possibly think that I can afford that many wedding bands. I'm disappointed! I'm disappointed in you, OR-din-ARY minister!" 
> 
> Come on, it’ll be funny.


	7. The Man With the X-Ray Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took the precaution of a good coat and a short friend.

_“That’s two questions. Goodnight, John.”_

John stared at the final text with a mixture of amusement and disappointment. 

He should’ve realized getting SH’s name wouldn’t be easy. And so he took it as a challenge, the fact that he was denied knowledge of SH’s name whilst the man so openly used John’s own only fueled his determination to get it. SH may have had the advantages of both being a genius and knowing who John was, but John was a crafty son of a bitch and had learned in the blazing heat of Afghanistan to use whatever was at his disposal, however small. That was how he had taken out six attackers with an industrial strength army issue can-opener. That was how he had saved Pvt. Fulcher’s life by dragging his unconscious body out of a firefight using the belt of a dead commanding officer and the shredded top half of his uniform. That was how he charmed his way into the pants of every single man and woman in his unit. He used what he had and in this case he had a Mike, a mobile number, and an internet connection. It was more than enough. 

Fueled by curiosity and desire he stayed up until 4:00 AM typing SH’s number into every person tracking website available, to no avail. He knew it would have been easier to just call Mike, explain the situation, and extract the information he was practically frothing at the mouth for, but when had taking the easy way out ever been fun? No, this was much more satisfying. He decided to call the phone companies after he had gotten adequate rest, because the thrill of the hunt may be exhilarating and all, but it wasn’t the best pick-me-up. 

He passed out the moment his head hit the pillow.

 

After John had risen, gone through his morning routine of mentally flipping off the world for being so damn aggravating in the morning, had a quick shower, and managed a full English breakfast, he was ready to tackle the mystery of SH. 

It wasn’t that he was doing this out of some competitive drive, well, not now that‘d he‘d kicked off the last dregs of his hangover and gotten a good night‘s sleep. He had no intention of even letting on that he knew SH’s name once he found out just what the hell it was. He wanted SH to tell John in his own time, he wanted to be entrusted with the gift of the man’s name, but in the mean time he was getting tired of mentally referring to him as SH. It sounded like he was bloody shushing himself in his own head. 

John got nowhere with the phone companies. 

It was time to use his ace in the hole. 

Mike was not the quietest man. He was very cheerful and he always had something to say and that’s why he and John had gotten on so well way back when. It’s why most people liked him, because he was so open. For once, John felt like cursing that little part of Mike’s character. If they really were acquaintances, as SH had said, there was always a chance that they would talk. He knew there was also a chance that SH wouldn’t approve of his own evidence gathering, and if he directly asked for SH’s name Mike might tell the bloody genius that John had been asking after him. So he decided to simply not ask. 

SH may have been able to nick information, but John could manipulate. John could manipulate like a motherfucker.

It took three hours of drunken wailing to extract a phone from Harriet. He literally could not have visited his sister at a worse time. He hadn’t known about the relapses. He hadn’t known about the fighting.  
He hadn’t known about the divorce.

It was with a weary expression, heavy-heart, and a phone in his pocket that Harry had insisted he keep, that John exited Shitstorm City and stepped back onto the streets of London. 

It wasn’t until hours later that he would realize that he hadn’t needed to do anything but take a walk to get Sherlock‘s name.

 

He had been ignoring a black Cadillac for the better part of 2 minutes before it drove ahead, pulled up to the curb, and a gorgeous woman stepped out. 

John wasn’t stupid. He knew a trap when he saw one and there was no way someone with heels that high would approach him without a hidden agenda. Still, he wasn’t one to scare easy, so with a square of his shoulders he drew nearer to the phone wielding woman. 

The entire drive was underwhelming. With the exception of the increasingly annoying tapping of keys, they sat in complete silence. The windows were so dark that John couldn’t tell where they were going, but he could tell they were driving in circles just to confuse him. And confuse him they did, for when they finally stopped and he was allowed to leave the car he was surprised to find he was back on the exact same street they had picked him up at. 

John was fuming and was about to uncork the verbal ass-beating of a lifetime on the driver before the woman, “Anthea”, ushered him into a café that had a sign saying CLOSED FOR THE HOLIDAYS on it. 

The place would have been very cozy were it not for the unpleasantness that the man sitting in the middle of it seemed to naturally emanate. 

He screamed old money and an upper crust education. John didn’t know what the hell he did to be forced into the company of this man, but he would not be intimidated. 

The man sat with an brolly propped between his legs, feet unconsciously tapping to an internal beat, and a file in his hand that he was taking his time scanning through. Finally, he spoke. 

“John, please there’s no need to be uncomfortable, take a seat.” he indicated the chair across from his own with a lazy flick of his hand. 

John’s left eye twitched. “I think I’ll just stand, thanks.” 

The man finally decided to grace him with his stare. This seemed to irritate John more than anything else. The kidnapping, the assistant, the goddamn driving, all paled in comparison to the calculated movement of this man’s stupid, posh head. 

They regarded each other for a small theoretical eternity before the man spoke. 

“What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”

John was at a loss for but a second before he realized he had just been given what he had been after all day and he couldn’t even sodding enjoy it. Damn this man! 

With a smile that he only broke out on special occasions, such as say being kidnapped by a dick in a fancy suit, he replied.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” 

The man raised an imperious eyebrow before consulting his file. 

“It says here you’re a soldier. You must be very handy with a rifle.” 

“I’m also very handy with a scalpel.” The underlying message of I-will-cut-you-bitch was not lost on Cornelius Creeperton III ,or whatever his name was, because the smile that he countered with was just enough to notch John‘s discomfort meter up to eleven. 

Once again, he scanned his file. “You spent….five hours looking up his number last night. Care to explain?”

“Not to you.” John grunted. “And by the way, just who are you?”

“A concerned party. And one that you do not wish to cross.”

 

The tension of the room was broken by the click-clack of sharp heels. Another file was gently handed off to the most boring bond villain ever and just as noisily as she came, Anthea left. 

“Ah, the phone transcripts,” He smiled nastily, “let’s see what you two have been up to, shall we?”

In that moment John realized that this idiot had the completely wrong idea and he couldn’t feel smugger.

As the most unpleasant ginger in the world started reading his face immediately did a thing. A, in John’s opinion, hilarious thing. It almost looked as if the man’s face couldn’t decide if it wanted to look repulsed or traumatized and had just settled for a bit of both. 

Just then John’s old phone beeped and the man directed that look at John’s pocket. 

John pulled it out and checked it, glad for the distraction because there was no way he was going to keep a straight face any longer if that face was still in his line of vision. 

“If convenient, cum for me.” 

And, before John could reign his smile in, it beeped again.

“If inconvenient, cum anyway.”

Looking up at the man, wearing what he knew was the smuggest grin to ever grace his features, John held out his phone. 

“Would you like to check these as well, I’m sure you’ll find them enlightening.” 

The man practically gagged out a “No!” before two large men came and whisked John away in a whirlwind of giant muscles and bad cologne. 

John never laughed so hard in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not entirely convinced that Andrew Scott’s eyebrows aren’t a crime fighting duo that sneak off into the night to take care of business, only to return in the wee hours of the morning like a pair of well plucked boomerangs.


	8. Satin in a Coffin

The moment that Sherlock awoke from his orgasm induced coma he noticed three things.   
A. He had slept far longer than his usual two hours if he was reading the sun correctly.  
B. There was a giant, hulking beast sitting in his chair fiddling with a brolly.   
C. He was cuddling the legs of said beast.

“‘Where ever he falls, there shall he be buried,’ eh brother mine?”

With as much dignity as a man can muster with a come covered shirt on and his dick exposed to the cold-Mycroft must have fiddled with the thermostat it was freezing!- Sherlock rose and towered over his intruder. 

He took an obscene pleasure in the way his brother had to look anywhere but at him. 

“I haven’t the slightest clue as to what you’re referring, Piecroft.” 

“For god’s sake, fix your clothes!”

 

2 minutes of silence punctuated by the occasional rustling of cloth later, Sherlock and Mycroft now sat across from each other glaring. 

Sherlock, now being completely naked, was determined to win their battle of wills. 

With a tired sigh, Mycroft broke the silence. 

“We have to talk about this John Watson character that you’ve been corresponding with,” Sherlock’s full body tense was enough to give Mycroft pause and choose his next words carefully, “I think he could be potentially dangerous, I don‘t know what you two have been saying to each other, but whatever it was he‘s trying to find you with a determination that‘s borderline obsessive.” Sherlock took more pleasure in that than he thought was possible, “I don’t want to see you get hurt.” 

Sherlock sneered. How dare Mycroft try to use sentiment on him to get his own way! He didn’t know John! He didn’t know anything! 

“You would know this how? Hmm? Read his files, did you? Had the toclafane follow him, Master?” 

Any objection Mycroft was about to make was quickly squashed as a pair of trousers came flying at his head and all energy was used deflecting them with a quick ejection of his brolly. 

“Sherlock-”

He barely shielded himself from the shoes.

“Sherlock, stop this at-”

The crusty shirt hit its mark and like a big, pompous bat, Mycroft fled. 

All the tension left Sherlock’s body at the slamming of the door to 221B. He knew he had overreacted, and he knew Mycroft would analyze his reaction until he figured it out, but he simply could not be arsed to care. Frankly, it was worth it to watch Lord of the Onion Rings jiggle his way out of the flat. He wouldn’t be seeing him again for at least a week. 

John was definitely going to get kidnapped today. Better alert his homeless network to keep an eye out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the looks of it I won't be able to update tonight and although I don't have to update everyday it helps me to have a bit of a routine. If I die I must request that someone photoshop Ol’ Gregg and Lestrade together and use it as my obituary photo.


	9. Touch Me I'm Going to Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that, to some of you, it may seem as if I have led you on a little with my first chapter. But don’t think of it like that. Think of it as a tease. These chapters are us exploring. What we like, what we don’t, what makes us smile, what makes us bite our lips. It is my philosophy that every great story teller must treat their audience like lovers. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to draw this out a little longer. The build up, when done correctly, can be almost as good as the climax. First times are important, sweets. So seeing that this is our first time together let’s make it special. There’ll be plenty of time for quickies later.
> 
> Plus I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. How does one even do the do?!

John spent the rest of his day in a chipper mood. He shouldn’t have been, what with the drunk sister, the creepy abductor, and the horde of homeless people that seemed to be following him everywhere, but regardless, he still found himself giggling inappropriately at random times throughout the day. His merry demeanor got so bad that an old woman at the supermarket pulled him aside, hugged him, and thanked him for being in love. She then eyed the contents of his little basket, which just happened to be a large tube of lube and a variety of phallic looking produce, and winked at him. He didn’t know what to make of that, wasn‘t sure he wanted to make anything of that. He purposefully made nothing of that. 

He knew that SH, no sorry Sherlock(knowing his name was still a bit of a novelty), had to have known about the kidnapping because there was no way his timing was that impeccable. He decided not to bring it up just yet though, on the off chance that it was purely coincidental. He however had no intention of ignoring that last message for much longer. 

Making his way up to his roach-infested, army-pension apartment he thought of what he wanted to say. If Sherlock wanted him to cum he was damn sure going to see to it that he wasn’t the only one. 

After putting away the more perishable items he purchased, he grabbed the lube, snagged an old towel, and retired to his bedroom. He stripped himself with determination, folding each article slowly and meticulously. He laid down the towel on the bed and rid it of any wrinkles. To an outsider it would have looked like he was just stalling. To an outsider it would have looked like he was just preparing for a wank. An outsider would be wrong. John Watson didn’t prepare for wanks. 

John Watson prepared for wars.

Crawling onto the bed with his phone in hand, he typed out his message to Sherlock, but didn‘t hit send, not yet, he saved it to drafts and opened another app. Slowly he slid his open palm down his chest and stopped just shy of the base of his cock. Closing his eyes, he let himself be immersed in the sensation. He ran the tips of his calloused fingers through the coarse hairs around his cock, down his balls, and pressed them lightly against his perineum. He gasped. It was too much and not nearly enough. He traveled lower and let his finger dryly circle his hole. It had been so long since anyone touched him there. So long since he let anyone touch him there. He wanted Sherlock to touch him there. 

_Sherlock._

He needed lube. Now. 

With his teeth he tore off the plastic cap and squeezed the liquid over the fingers that he hadn’t stopped teasing himself with. He was expecting the cold, it still shocked him, but he took to it like a masochist would a slap. He groaned as he nudged one finger into himself. 

 

By the time he was four fingers deep his body was covered in a sheen of sweat. The muscles in his abdomen were contracting and relaxing in a near constant cycle. The arm that was keeping him up was beginning to shake under the weight of him and he knew he wouldn‘t last much longer. Without so much as a pause he sat up to grab his phone. The angle changed, his wrist hurt, but he still managed to slam against his prostate. 

He came with a name on his lips not long after. 

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock didn’t know how long he waited for a response, but when he got one he didn’t stand a chance. 

 

“I want to make you wear my tags. I wouldn’t let you take them off for days. Only when I’m sure everyone’s seen you wearing MY tags, MY dogtags wrapped around your pretty neck, would I claim you fully. I wouldn’t choke you with them. Wouldn’t dare. Even I have limits. Noooo, I’d use them to bind your hands. Sure, you could break free, but you wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be sensible to gag you. I need to access to your lips. I need to hear you whimper and grunt and moan my name. I’d bind your hands above your head, possibly behind your back if you‘ve been bad, and tonguefuck you until you begged me to let you come. I’d replace my tongue with my fingers and graze my teeth along the bottom of your cock until you came screaming.” 

An audio loop of one man whining “Sherlock!” accompanied by the poorly stifled groans of another could be heard all throughout 221 Baker St.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this to my wee bunny, AngeRabbit. I give this marriage about as long as this story lasts after which I'll take half of your stuff and blow up the rest. That's what you get for playin' your love gaaaaaaames with me, motherlicker!


	10. Everything Goes Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not proof-read any of this. You're getting the raw cut because NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. Nah, just tired. Anyways I hope you enjoy this. It being my tenth chapter, it seemed important I do something special.

Over the course of a month Sherlock and John got to know each other more and more.  
John learned about The Work, the controlling older brother, the appalling eating habits, the experiments, the boredom.  
Sherlock learned about The War, the inebriated younger sister, the scars, the medical essays, the nightmares.  
And although wanking was at an all time high for both parties, it wasn’t just about pleasure anymore, it was about them.

The first time Sherlock asked for a picture it wasn’t because he was aroused. It wasn’t because he was bored. It wasn’t even because he was experimenting. It was because he wanted to wake up to a picture of John with sleepy eyes and bed hair. 

And dear John did him one better. 

The morning that Sherlock awoke to a video message from John was a day he would always cherish. It was simple and short and John. John sitting on his bed, pajamas and all, smiling at him while the light filtering through his curtains illuminated his rumpled hair, giving him an angelic glow. John saying “Morning, Sherlock” in a croaky voice. Sherlock watched it 124 times, and if anyone at the yard noticed that his smile was gentler or that his step was lighter, they didn’t make comment.

The night that John received an audio file from Sherlock was the first of many.  
He had been awakened by his own screaming again. He was always hoarse in the mornings because of it.  
He was always drenched in sweat too. It was as he was stripping off his clothes that he knocked his phone on the floor. He hadn’t been expecting any texts when he checked it for the time, but there was one anyways. When he opened it the soft note of a violin carried through his abysmal little flat. As the sweet music played on he thought of the tree he used to climb as a child. He thought of the uppermost branches that were so large that he could sit in them. He thought of how his sister used to call it the giant’s hand even though it only had 4 fingers because “Johnny the Giant Slayer” had lopped off it‘s thumb. He thought of the day that the sun shone through a warm rainstorm as he cradled Harry, humming while she cried over her dead hamster. He thought and thought and thought until without realizing it, he became drowsy and fell asleep to the sound of the last bittersweet notes. He didn’t have nightmares for the rest of the night. 

It was one month and one week into their relationship of sorts that John got a text from Sherlock saying that he wanted to meet him where they first “encountered” each other. John was ecstatic. He had waited for what felt like an eternity for Sherlock to open up to him. He hadn’t asked for photos from Sherlock because for all his pride, for all his confidence, he was a timid creature at heart. He took pride in his work, he was confident in his cleverness, but in the perceptions of others he was not. He wore his cleverness like a coat to shield him from the cold stares and harsh words of those around him and even though he never said as much, John knew this.  
And so John waited. But now, he thought smiling to himself as he tried on his fourth shirt, he didn’t have to wait much longer. 

When John arrived at the pub it felt as if nothing and everything had changed.  
He knew that the pub wasn’t really different, but the lights seemed softer, the colors that had attacked his vision before now seemed less garish and he knew that his rosy perception of the world around him was all due to Sherlock. 

It was a tap to the shoulder that brought him out of his little world and back into reality. Swallowing slightly John turned around. 

The man before him was gorgeous. His hair was like inky waves framing his lightly stubbled face.  
His nose was sharp and his smile was nervous. His eyes were like sunshine through water and John was lost in them. 

“Hello, John.” 

Oh god that voice was like silk. 

 

It hadn’t taken but 30 minutes for Sherlock to snap and pin John to the bathroom wall. In hindsight, John should have realized that something was wrong then and there.

The kissing was exquisite, it was rough and sweet and slow and fast all at the same time and John couldn’t stop. He couldn’t breathe either, but breathing was boring. John was caged in against the wall by Sherlock’s arms and one knee carefully planted between John’s legs. It wasn’t enough. With hands shaking he grabbed Sherlock’s zip and yanked impatiently, earning a huff of laughter, until he could get to the hard length that was just beneath. The groan that Sherlock graced his ears with was enough to make him shudder. 

_Oh god._

The next thing John knew he was completely immobilized by his own shirt. Damn button ups! He couldn’t get his bloody hands free of the double button cuffs. 

_If I could just_ -“uuuhn!”

All progress was halted as Sherlock slipped a clever hand into his pants. When had John lost his trousers?  
It didn’t matter, none of it mattered, all that mattered was Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock! 

John was getting close and Sherlock being ever the observant one noticed this. 

“If you come now, John, I’ll be very, very cross.” 

“oh god, please, I, Sher-”

He was cut off by a rough kiss that was all teeth and abruptly spun around and pushed against the wall.  
His pants were violently yanked down around his ankles and his legs were kicked apart. 

“Sherlock, I don’t-”

He was silenced as one slick, deft finger collided with his prostate. 

Another soon followed, and another, and another. 

“My, what a handful you are. Do you want some more, John?” 

John was barely able to breathe. Sherlock’s fingers weren’t much bigger than John’s but like this they felt gigantic as they brushed his prostate over and over and stretched him wider and wider. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, John. "Do-” **brush** , “-you-” **stretch** , “-want-” **brush** , “-some-” **stretch** , “-more?” **JAB.**

“UH, please! Please, ah, give me more!” John screamed breathless. 

“Well since you asked so nicely.” And before John could blink Sherlock was pounding into him relentlessly. 

John couldn’t grip anything, he couldn’t gain any purchase on the walls, because his hands were still wrapped up in the shirt Sherlock was now pulling on. 

“Sher-” A hand came up and clamped over his mouth as the pace of Sherlock’s hips got impossibly faster. 

“You know what I don’t get, Johnny-boy?” The voice huffed out into John’s ear wasn’t the same.  
“I don’t get why Sherlock would waste his time on someone as gullible as you.” And before John could fight off the imposter a syringe was stabbed into his neck and everything went hazy. With a final slam into John, the fraud stilled as his orgasm ripped through him. John winced as the man pulled out and pushed him down and poor John could do nothing but fall. 

He heard water running somewhere to his right, he heard the scuff of shoes, he heard the rip of paper towels. He felt only fear. 

“I’ve got to say this was more than a little disappointing,” the voice said from somewhere above.

He heard a cap pop. “but I suppose, that’s alright. As long as you’re out of the way it doesn’t really matter.”

Everything was spinning except for the pair of shoes walking slowly towards his face. 

John felt the room shift as his head was lifted up by his hair, but he couldn’t shout. 

A pair of eyes as black as the earl of hell’s waistcoat stared into his. 

“Sh’lk?” was all John could manage. 

The nervous smile from before was gone and replaced by one that was just as sharp as the teeth it was full of. 

“Oh I’m sorry, I never introduced myself. Please, call me Jim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA! I REGRET NOTHING! 
> 
> This is the song Sherlock played for John-  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ikgm37dWwEQ
> 
> And this is how I imagined Jim looking. http://magazine.topman.com/wp-content/themes/generation/image.php?height=524&cropratio=932:524&image=http://magazine.topman.com/wp-content/themes/konzept/includes/uploadify/uploads/MEAN_AND_LEAN_ANDREW_SCOTT.jpg 
> 
> Sorry, I'm not sorry.


	11. As the World Falls Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I’ve been going John/Sherlock/John/Sherlock but Jim sort of threw a monkey wrench in that formula when I wrote him in on the fly. That’s right, biscuits, I’ve been coming up with this as I write it. There is no plan and that’s the plan! AH HAHAHAHAAAAAA! *shoots self in the face*

John awoke to the smell of stale popcorn and the muffled sound of music. 

He felt like his eyelids had been glued together.  
It took a tremendous effort to open them, but when he did, everything was a blur.  
His head was too heavy to lift so he focused on what was in front of him. One large, long, red and white log laying vertically and one black blob sitting atop it was all he could make out. 

Blinking sluggishly they came a little more into focus. The black blob wasn’t a blob at all, it was two black logs, much slimmer than the red and white log, pressed together and running horizontally. Where they ended, John could not yet see. Slowly other senses began to kick in. Whatever he was sitting on was soft, comfy really, and he had to fight the sleep that was threatening to overtake him. And the music was becoming clearer.  
He knew this song. It was by, by…someone. 

His head felt like it was full of fog and his thoughts were all running around, bumping into him, and running away again before they could be distinguished. 

Blinking a little faster, he realized that the red and white log was, in fact, him. He was clad in red and white striped pajamas and his legs were tied together at the knees and ankles. He was in a reclined position and the black logs, which turned out to be a pair of riding boots, were pressing hard enough into his legs to give him needles and pins. He tried lifting his head again, to no avail. 

“Did you know The Labyrinth was the first movie I ever saw?” Came a voice to the right of him. 

The fog lifted immediately and the memory of what happened came crashing through his mind with startling clarity. 

“I was 9 years old at the time, and Dummy and Maddy had made me go to my cousin’s birthday party, detestable little girl, and they were playing it in the living room for her mute little brother who was too young to play with the rest of the children," He paused, crunching on a handful of popcorn, "and I just took one look at David Bowie in all his tight-wearing glory and I was hooked. It was so funny, you should of seen how hard little Tom tried to tell his parents that I had stolen his video. Little mouth gasping like a dying fish. That was probably the best party I’ve ever been to.” 

Bile was steadily rising in John’s throat as the bored Irish drawl of his abductor droned on seeming to not need input from another to hold a conversation. 

_Dear god, let me live._

“I met him once, Bowie that is. Charming man, surprisingly considerate lover, I certainly wouldn’t have been that patient with me, but oh how you should have heard him swear when I tied him up and raided his wardrobe. He knows more curses than I do and that is rather impressive,” Jim giggled. “I still have the police statement he wrote. Framed and everything.” 

John was becoming more and more hysterical and he couldn’t move a damn finger, let alone run away. 

The boots finally lifted off of his legs, but the relief in his thighs was short lived because suddenly Jim was straddling him. He couldn’t see Jim’s face, but he could see he was wearing grey tights, the outline of a prominent bulge visible and somehow highlighted by the dark contrast of the blue bejeweled jacket he was wearing. 

John wanted to gag. 

“You can’t move, can you.” It wasn’t a question and if John were able he would have shuddered at the smile he could hear in Jim’s words. 

Gentle fingers traced John’s jugular up his jaw line before harshly grabbing his face and wrenching it up to look into the eyes of hell itself. 

John could feel the sweat trickle down his temple, he could feel nails biting into his cheeks, he could feel the cutting intelligence in those eyes but more than that he could feel the insanity of them burning into him. 

“You see, every story has a Sarah, John, and every good story needs a Jareth, that’s me by the way, hello,” Jim waved a little hand in John’s face. “Now can you guess who you are, Johnny?” And like a puppet having his string cut, John’s head lolled forward as Jim let go of his face. “Look at yourself nice and hard. Any guesses? No?” Jim yanked his head back up by his hair, making John’s eyes wince in pain. “YOU are Toby, John. You’re my Sarah’s pressure point!” Jim smiled into his face while shouting, the effect was terrifying. 

Suddenly the manic smile fell away and what was left behind would haunt John for years to come.  
There was nothing. It was lifeless. John was staring into the eyes of death and it was talking to him. 

“But do you know the main difference between Jareth and myself, John?” 

John swallowed, Death took it as an assent.

“I have power over everyone.” 

With those words he left. John sat bound and alone in the dark theatre room while Labyrinth kept on playing, unshed tears distorting his vision as the music continued to fill his ears. 

**_As the world falls doooooooooooooown....._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the shortness. I will try, and I do stress try, to update again tonight. 
> 
>  
> 
> I wish I could raid David Bowie's Wardrobe.


	12. Heart Cooks Brain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, I don't know how it went from happy and carefree to this, but it's happened. Adapt.

Sherlock had been deep in the latest of the serial murderers for the past several days. He had tracked down the suitcase (no thanks to the incompetence of Scotland Yard), figured out the password, and taken the death cab. 

Now he stood, the tip of a possibly poisoned pill pressed to his lips, the beady eyes of a sad, old murderer mimicking his actions, and the distinct buzz of adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

It was bliss. 

It all came shattering down around him the moment the sound of a gunshot ripped through the air.

In an explosion of glass and blood, the cabbie and the pill fell as one. Sherlock glanced out the window and into the adjacent building only to see the burning ember of a cigarette as it was flicked out in the shadows. 

He quickly ducked for cover as another shot rang out.

And another.

And another.

By the time Sherlock realized the fourth shot was coming from his own pocket the cabbie had died writing out the letters M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y in his own blood. 

Sherlock reached into his pocket slowly and pulled out his phone, watchful of the shadows in the other window all the while. There were three texts, all from the same blocked number. 

The first was a video taken from a concealed camera that was hidden somewhere on the man that had filmed it. It was roughly five minutes long. 

Five agonizing, disgusting, horrible, heart wrenching minutes long. 

Sherlock felt sick with each passing second of watching it. 

He felt sick as he watched John be fooled by the imposter.  
He felt sick as he watched the man tape himself entering John.  
He felt sick as he watched John’s realization make itself known as his shoulders tensed, as his body lashed out, as he failed to escape.  
He felt sick as he watched John fall. 

He felt numb as he watched John try to call his name. 

The second text was a picture of John. 

Sherlock’s eye twitched.

John was naked, drugged, hog-tied, and laying on his side in a bare, dank looking room. The only comfort Sherlock could draw from this is that he was unharmed.

The third and final text wasn’t a picture, nor was it a video, but its effect on Sherlock was just as bad. 

**“You have 13 hours to solve my puzzles before your little toy becomes one of mine until the day he breaks. -JM”**

For a full 10 seconds Sherlock just stood in silence. 

For a full 10 seconds Sherlock felt nothing. 

Then, like a tidal wave, all the emotions flooded his system. 

He screamed, he ranted, he pulled his hair, he threw the chairs across the room and out the window, he kicked the cabbie over and over and over and over until tears filled his vision and he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t until he was covered in blood and hyperventilating in a corner and everything was falling apart at the seams that he came out of his head. 

He was sitting in the back of an ambulance. Lestrade was asking him question after question trying desperately to get something, anything, out of him. 

He could not afford to lose any more time to shock. 

Standing suddenly enough to startle Lestrade, Sherlock threw off the shock blanket that had made its way onto his shoulders.

He could not afford to lose John. 

He could feel Lestrade trying to stop him from leaving, he could hear Donovan shouting for back up, but none of it registered. 

_I have to get to the bar._

_I have to look for clues._

_I HAVE TO SAVE JOHN!_

It wasn’t until the yelling stopped and the grabbing ceased that he realized he had shouted the last bit out loud and everyone was staring at him. 

He looked to Lestrade, face like a lost child’s. 

“I have to save John,” he whispered.

If Lestrade saw tears run down Sherlock’s cheeks he graciously didn’t mention it. 

No one moved for several precious seconds as Sherlock looked to a man who, from that day forward, he would consider a friend.

“How can we help?” 

Sherlock had never been more grateful for Greg Lestrade’s existence than in that moment. 

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Lestrade, Sherlock, and a few select officers were now taping off the bathroom in “Novaries”. 

Sherlock was pacing back and forth, stopping at seemingly random moments to examine something that didn’t look even remotely important, before resuming his pacing exactly where he left off. 

“Sherlo-”

“Shut up. Don’t speak, don’t think, don’t even breathe, in fact, get out. All of you.” 

The other officers left immediately. The bite in Sherlock’s tone was enough to make most men do that. Lestrade, however, was not most men and so he stayed. 

He stayed as Sherlock alternated between muttering under his breath and raving out loud. He stayed as Sherlock flung insult after insult and deduction after deduction at him, his team, his family, and anything else he could get his gnarled claws into. He stayed as Sherlock vomited into the sink and then slid down the wall and just sat staring off into space. 

The whole affair lasted about 40 minutes before Sherlock snapped out of it. 

“He cleaned up in here, obvious, shouldn’t have even bothered coming. The video was his way of showing off, not the real clue. He was trying to throw me off by sending it first. Make people emotional and they make mistakes. Clever fucker, I’m going to kill him.” 

Sherlock spewed out the entire outburst in, what lestrade would later dub as, a sort of verbal diarrhea, before standing up and speeding past him. 

“Oi, where are we going now,” asked Lestrade as he scrambled to catch up to Sherlock’s bloody gazelle-like pace. 

“To 221C!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, dearies, I acquired the tumblr some time ago and I‘ll hope you‘ll add or follow or whatever and give me the incentive to actually use it. Admittedly right now it seems to be inhabited solely by dust, but it’s just cyber dust so you don’t have to worry about the vashta nerada picking your bones clean. Picking your bones clean. Picking your bones clean. Bones clean. bones clean. bones clean. bones clean. clean. clean. clean. 
> 
> Oh come on that was funny!
> 
> *Doctor Who fandom drops me into a black hole*
> 
> -sigh-
> 
> Much like Sherlock, my jokes seem to fall flat. 
> 
> *Sherlock fandom loses count of how many times I “fell” out of the window* 
> 
> Seriously though, how do you tumblr?! http://moraearty.tumblr.com/


	13. Pain in the Ass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this chapter, but I'm tired of trying to fix it. SUFFER AT THE HANDS OF MY BAD WRITING AND WORSE GRAMMAR! AHAHAHAHAAAAAAAhaaha..ha..ugh. 
> 
> I think my body's trying to kill me. Send soothing teas and all of the milk free chocolate you can find. Oh and if any one can get their hands on that Seventh Heaven movie starring Jimmy Stewart that was made in the 30's send that too. I can't find it anywhere.

For the second time in 10 hours, John awoke in an unfamiliar room, immobilized, with a pair of feet in his lap.

Unlike the first time, John had control of his motor-skills and, were it not for the strong rope keeping his hands in check, he would have broken the rotating pair of ankles attached to the bare, pedicured feet that, yet again, were digging into his thighs. Instead he did what he could, which was to take in his surroundings, check for exists, test the strength of the rope, and glare daggers at the man that was lounging on the couch next to him like an old lover.  
Aside from the glow coming from the laptop that was balanced on Jim’s chest, there was no light in the room. Any exits there might be were indiscernible in the all consuming darkness.  
There wasn’t any give from the bloody rope either. 

“You know you snore. Loudly.” 

Jim didn’t sound irritated as he said this. More amused than anything, almost the way an adult would sound when indulging a child by playing tea party. 

It pissed John right off. 

“You know you’re insane. Completely.” John bit back. It wasn’t much of an insult, but his tone was like acid and he was somewhat proud that a few flecks of spit managed to hit Jim, even if it wasn‘t in his face. 

Jim only became more amused and ended up giggling as he finally tore his gaze off of the screen and looked at John. 

John looked right back, those eyes may be frightening as all hell when you’re drugged and vulnerable, but now they just looked like what they were. Bloody, buggering, sodding, stupid Bambi eyes that Jim had probably magically willed himself to have just to lure people in when he wasn‘t scaring them away. 

“You’re just getting that now?”

“Oh fuck you.” 

With a pout that put most children to shame and a burst of movement, Jim was up and standing, not sitting, STANDING on John’s lap like a displeased housecat. 

“We’ve done that already and it was underwhelming to say the least. I must say, you’re much more eloquent over text.” 

The incredulity John felt left him gaping. 

“Underwh-You raped me against a wall! I couldn’t even move, I STILL can’t move and what would you know about my eloquence, you garlicy twat, you don’t even know me!” 

Jim somehow managed to swiftly squat, still balanced on John’s thighs, to the point that he was now eye to eye with John. 

“First off, my dear Watson, rape implies that I took you against your will, I have video evidence that suggests otherwise, not to mention an eidetic memory. You BEGGED me to fuck you and I did, you’re just cross because you were drugged before you could come. Anyways I did all the work, you could have at least moved.”

“I could have mov-YOU SON OF A BI-” before John’s rant could pick up any speed three fingers were swiftly shoved in his mouth, pushing down on his jaw with just enough force to keep them from being bitten off, which is exactly what John tried to do for several seconds until giving up was the only option.

“Done?” 

“oo uckar!” 

The fingers where finally withdrawn…and wiped off in John’s hair. 

If looks could kill the entire block would have been leveled. 

Jim continued on like nothing had happened, hand STILL wiping itself in John’s hair.

“Secondly, I know everything about you. School records, bank statements, police reports, college submissions, medical essays, psychiatric profiling, army records, traffic tickets, phone transcripts, hell even your browser history, all those little puzzle pieces people don’t realize they leave behind, all just waiting to be put together and I‘m just the man to do it. Oh, but even if I didn‘t have access to everything, do you really think Sherlock is the only person that can observe? No, no, no, John, in a world inhabited by the blind the man that can see is king and, honey, you should see me in a crown.” 

Jim’s speech was ended with a little, reptilian oscillation of his head and a pleased smile.  
It made John sick. 

“Don’t,” John had to pause and reign in the anger that was threatening to get him killed. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to Sherlock, in any way, because you are nothing,” Jim’s toes dug into his legs, “nothing alike.” 

Jim smiled like John was a particularly dim child and he was the ever patient adult.

“Don’t be so sure about that.” 

And with that he turned the laptop screen around and held it directly in John’s face, momentarily blinding him in the process. 

As John squinted at the monitor he finally managed to focus in on the website’s title

“I’m sorry, how is The Journal of Sexology supposed to be relevant?” 

Jim rolled his eyes, amusement at an all time high. 

“Well you see, if you had read on you would have noticed a certain little article penned by a certain little detective written about a certain little soldier.”

John did read on and he wasn’t amused in the slightest. 

“You wrote that, and you’re lying. You’re just trying to manipulate me, it. won’t. work. I know Sherlock cares about me.” 

“Does he? What makes you so sure that you matter to him at all? We’re just alike he and I, and you, you’re just an ongoing experiment, an interesting one, I‘ll give you that. After all, I‘ve never heard of someone seductively mother-henning before, but you’re still just an experiment.” 

“I, wait, what?” 

Jim, still on John’s now dying legs, stood up with feline grace. With a touch on his keyboard a spot light appeared from nowhere and landed directly on him. With his chin high, eyes closed, and one hand in the air holding the open laptop like Hamlet with a skull, he began to perform, the intonation of his words greatly exaggerated for a dramatic effect. 

 

“When you refuse to eat I’ll take you out to dinner. You’ll be wearing a plug. I’ll make you order and punctuate your every word with a slow teasing grind from my palm. It’ll be adorable to watch you stutter and gasp out our orders. When the food comes I‘ll reward each bite you take with a stroke. Oh but you won’t be allowed to come. Not yet. Halfway through your meal, and I do mean exactly halfway, you’ll go to the restroom and flip the vibration switch on the plug and come directly back. If you don’t, I’ll drag you back into the toilet and flip it myself. I’ll let you come the moment the bill does. I’ll tip generously as we leave the smell of your sex and sweat in our wake.” 

John‘s face couldn‘t have been redder, whether from embarrassment, anger, or both. 

“I got it, I got it, jesus just stop!” 

Jim sagged visibly “Oh come on, that wasn’t even the best one!” 

“No!” 

Jim stared down at John for a long moment and began gently whispering out the next one. 

“When you won’t sleep I’ll make you tired,” John sighed and threw his head back in frustration. 

“I’ll drag you to bed, kissing you all the way there, until you give in. I’ll be over you, your legs wrapped around me, pushing myself into you until there’s nothing left to give. I want to pull out until only the head is nestled inside you, just so, and then I want to slam into you with such force that you can’t breathe. I want the breath literally knocked out of you as I pound into you mercilessly,” Jim started laughing. The prick. “Oh god, I love that one, it’s just so horrible it’s good.” 

“It only sounds horrible when you say it out loud,” Defended John.

“It only sounds horrible because it is horrible. I’ve come up with more erotic equations than that.” 

“Alright, fine, it’s horrible, but if I’m so bloody unimportant why do you have me? Why are you using me as bait?! Why are you, the big, pompous, asshole that you are, dealing with me personally. You’re obviously very powerful with your all-seeing-fucking-EYE, you’re bound to have people that work for you, why not have them deal with me?!”

“Ooooh hoo hoo, look at you, using your brain! Daddy’s almost proud.” 

_Oh that was IT!_

Summoning up all the energy he could, John began bucking wildly. The pleasure he took at the sight of Jim tumbling down and landing right on his ass was immense. 

Jim of course ruined it a little by laughing hysterically, but ever the doctor, John remedied that by using the last vestige of strength in his legs to kick Jim right in his stupid face.

It was well worth being drugged again for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I see Martin Freeman in sex scenes I get incredibly angry because YOU FUCKER HOW DARE YOU CHEAT ON SHERLOCK. Plus ew, sex scenes gross me out. *continues to read ALL THE PORN!*

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome criticism but reserve the right to criticize you for it.


End file.
